She doesn't know you but she could tell you your favorite song because she says it reminds her of the backs of your hands, younger than how they would seem and are much wiser than her. You've never spoke but your voice is her favorite song. Continuously playing in the back of her mind like a broken record you don’t want to turn off. She too is a broken record of your name, yet she cannot remember what it is. Like its resting on the tip of her lips, I imagine her, resting on the edge of yours. She tries to write poems, about how you make her feel weak at the knees. Frustrated, she tells me that she can’t write your perfection. It is endless and effortless and compares to nothing, after this she often contradicts herself by comparing you to the brightest stars and the vastness of space. He is all of me, she says. She knows you better in her dreams than she knows her own mother who doesn't know of the love she has given. She knows you’ll love her because she’s the sort of person who steps on every crack and reads obscure books with strange names. You’ll love her because she’s pretty and ambitious and astute and charming. She is endless and effortless and compares to nothing, you will often contradict this by comparing her to the brightest stars and the vastness of space. She will be all of you. She will rest on the edge of your lips and you will love her as she does you. As I love her.